


Faint

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character death fantasy, Creeper!Derek, Dark!Derek, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Season 1, Sexualized Violence, Teen Wolf kink meme fill, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn’t want to do the things he thinks about doing to Stiles; he doesn’t want to think the things he thinks about doing to Stiles. But thinking isn't doing; thinking isn't wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faint

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the teenwolfkink prompt: Derek tries to hold back the wolf inside and prevent himself from raping sweet, innocent Stiles. I already had part of this written but it had no direction. Then I saw this prompt and although it had already been WONDERFULLY filled, it inspired me to add a bit more and finish my fic. 
> 
> While there is no character death in this fic, there is fantasized character death, as well as violent and sexual and violently sexual fantasies.

Derek doesn’t want to _do_ the things he thinks about doing to Stiles; he doesn’t want to _think_ the things he thinks about doing to Stiles. But his family is gone, Laura is dead, an alpha is rampaging through Beacon Hills, and the only tenuous connection he has in the world is with a selfish sixteen year old _boy_ wrapped up in stupidity and immaturity and the stench of puppy love, the stink that will be forever seared into his mind and will forever be associated with the ashes of his family, the festering of death.

So Derek doesn’t _fight_ it when he drowns the buzzing of Stiles’ voice with quick, dark little fantasies; imagines his hand around the boy’s throat – his _jaws_ and _teeth_ then finally his _fangs_ – and pretends he can feel the fluttering of the boy’s Adam’s apple against his palm. He licks the roof of his mouth at the phantom taste of sweat and tears and blood.

He doesn’t _want_ to _do_ those things to Stiles; he doesn’t want to _think_ about doing those things to Stiles. But thinking isn’t doing. Thinking isn’t hurting, isn’t tempting, isn’t _wrong_ \- it isn't, it isn't - just _annoying_ \- when he tries to ignore the thoughts, anyway, it’s just exhausting and _annoying_ , like Stiles, like _teenagers_ , and he’s so tired of fighting what he does, what he needs to do, what he is, he doesn’t bother fighting the thoughts.

-

Even _before_ his life was engulfed in flame and smoke and bitterness, Derek lived a lot in his head. So _after_ his world becomes blistering, lingering, stinging pain, it is instinctual to retreat to his mind. He can hide things there; _he_ can hide there. The only things that linger on the outside are aggression and rage, manifesting through glares and displays of dominance and flights of violence.

-

It’s not like Derek thinks about choking and biting and ripping Stiles into pieces _all the time_. The thoughts only come to him every now and then, only when he’s already stressed and tired and pushed past the brink, only when his heart and bones and muscles are shaking and he can’t make them stop. The thoughts only come when he _can’t_ make them stop.

-

Derek isn’t sure when his fierce mental trysts with Stiles’ breakable body slide from tiresome to relieving. But one day he finds himself pushing his thoughts along the road to visions of claws dancing through Stiles’ skin instead of just letting his thoughts wander there on their own.

-

The twisting, bruising day dreams become one of Derek’s richest indulgences. The thoughts are _relaxing_ ; they give his mind a release he can’t find from physical exhaustion and his body the illusion of the relief he can’t allow his howling, raging wolf. The thoughts are vacations; not the heat kissed summers spent at the beach, not the crisp winters climbing and tumbling through snow, not the short trips stolen between school breaks, not the joyous excursions he knew with his family, but easy and simple and freeing all the same.

-

Eventually the thoughts sharpen. Eventually the thoughts _turn_. Eventually the thoughts are nudged with lips as well as teeth, shaped with tongues as well as claws.

If the thoughts had flickered with this kind of heat in the beginning, Derek would have stopped them, would have never let himself come to seek them out like shelter when his wounds are too deep and he just needs to rest, needs to distract himself from the way his own body and mind and _soul_ are being torn apart by drifting into thoughts of _devouring_ Stiles whole. But the thoughts, like every animal fighting for survival, evolved, and he already has them etched so deeply into his fur and skin, he has no choice but to ride the mutation out.

-

But Derek has always had a difficult time keeping the lines straight between violence and sex and _feelings._  He thinks the roots of it are buried in Kate, that it was her tongue and fingernails and blood that nurtured the sick seeds into the now murky forest of his thoughts.

He should have recognized the warning signs, the glaring, blaring danger signs; the ache in his nails when Stiles stretched his arms over his head, exposing his tender skin, the urge to press Stiles face forward into the wall instead of pushing himself against Stiles’ back, the need to _see_ his fear and fierceness – _taste it_ \- instead of just _smell_ of it.

He should have recognized the hunger that stirred in his chest at Stiles _idiotic_ displays of loyalty towards Scott.

-

When Derek is overwhelmed by chaos and confusion and terror and loneliness, he retreats to the fantasies for _focus_.

He will bury every emotion, memory, and frantic thought, then delve with complete abandon into the hollow of Stiles’ throat, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the sweep of his lashes, the way his hands move over his skull when he runs his fingers through his short hair; he loses himself in one thing, in one shallow simple little thing, wallowing into the warmth until everything else freezes peacefully in place, if only for a while.

Today Derek thinks of the way Stiles’ candy pink mouth slacks, open and pliant and _inviting_ , when the boy sleeps. He thinks about the way Stiles’ lips, always _moving_ , always _barbed_ , look so sweet and soft. He thinks about wrapping his fingertips around the delicate curve of Stiles’ jaw, pushing and pulling to keep the mouth spread, but he wouldn’t have to, because the boy will do that on his own, unconsciously offering himself, unconsciously proving himself _prey_ – defiant, cunning, clever and _lovely_ prey. So he moves on, thinks about licking, gentle and greedy, into Stiles’ mouth. He thinks about dragging the tip of his tongue softly inside, dipping in to taste the inside of the boy’s left cheek, then his right, then mapping his teeth. He thinks about sucking the boy’s tongue into his own mouth before sinking his fangs in so the blood and cries of Stiles’ painpleasurepleasurepain will gush directly into his mouth, so he can catch every drop, everything Stiles gives – everything Derek will _take_. He thinks about how accommodating the pretty mouth would be when the brain which made it so _wicked_ wasn’t in control. He thinks about slipping his thumb through those open lips, wetting the pad with Stiles own heat, and then dragging it to wet Stiles’ mouth. He thinks about pushing in three fingers, four, about making Stiles sleep slick mouth take so much that the boy would wake up with spit running down his chin and tears trickling from his eyes.

The thoughts are inspired by nights spent outside of the boy’s window, watching – but only _watching_ , only _thinking_ , never ever really _wanting_ and never ever _doing_.

-

There are days when throbbing pulses of pain beat with such deep concentration that Derek allows thoughts of Stiles to batter the hurt away. He allows the thoughts to slam and swirl and overtake him. He allows his mind to run, free of the bindings he forces on his own wolf, to trace the razor edges of every way he could have the boy – soft and sliding and sweet, hard and bruising but still so _sweet_ , completely and all at once or piece by piece and over time, seducing or luring or soothing or just taking, _keeping_. He allows himself to imagine it all at once, allows it all to fill and flood his mind completely.

So often Derek wants to give in to despair and loss, but there are so many reasons to keep fighting, to keep pushing, to keep pathetically _hoping_. The thoughts are the only place he can safely submit, the only place he can utterly surrender.

-

Derek knows where most of the thoughts spring from – Stiles incessant words, his scent, his spirit, his heart – that always beats so _fast -_ the way he flings himself without a second thought into the fray, the way he starts working with Derek out of fear and a desire to help Scott and the way he keepings working with Derek out of _trust_ that Derek has absolutely no right to but clings to pitifully.

There are some thoughts that he can’t trace to the point of origin.

There are thoughts of that _boy_ , the one whose number Stiles knew without looking into his contact list, the one who Stiles kept _looking_ at even though the he was clearly looking at Derek. _Danny_ , Stiles had said with a bright smile, and something brief but dark sparked in Derek’s mind.

Derek thinks about Danny, and about Stiles. He thinks about Danny looking at Stiles like he had looked at him. He thinks about Danny taking Stiles before Derek does, kissing and touching and fucking, not like Derek could, not nearly enough for Stiles. He thinks about Danny trying to claim Stiles and leaving Stiles wanting, desperate and keening, needing so much more, needing what only Derek could give him. He thinks about watching while Danny fucks into Stiles with human force, too gentle to get Stiles off, and he thinks briefly about letting Danny come in Stiles before running his claws through Danny’s body – decides he wouldn’t actually allow Danny to finish before he severed his spine. He thinks about ripping through Danny’s back while Stiles writhes, terrified and confused but still hard, still _waiting_. He thinks about how Stiles would only be satisfied – how Derek and his wolf would only be satisfied - once Derek was inside of him, fucking him _hard_ and _complete_ and in the heated blood of someone too stupid to realize Stiles already belonged to Derek.

The first time these thoughts play out – so _smoothly_ – in his head, Derek has to remind himself again that they are just _thoughts_. Thoughts that just _happen_. Thoughts that don’t _mean anything_ – not that the wires connecting sex and violence and the urge to protect and the urge to _tear_ are so fundamentally fucked up he will never be rid of them, not that he is an animal, not that he is out of control, and certainly not that he wants Stiles – not in any way, not at any depth, not in reality.

Derek reminds himself again – _just thinking, not wanting, not doing, never ever doing_ – and wraps his calloused hand around his cock, thinking – _just thinking_ – of the scent of Stiles fear and desire, of the red that would coat Stiles thighs and the way Stiles would scream, the cries that would drench Derek in Stiles and wash the rest of the world away.

-

Derek starts retreating into his thoughts too often.

-

The fragile uncertainty that is Derek’s life snaps all at once. He can’t hide in his memories or his plans or his feelings or his fantasies. When Kate strings him up, tortures and twists him, keeps him breaking but not broken, he can barely think at all.

-

The words vibrate, jackhammer repetition slicing through Derek’s conscious and subconscious until the thoughts are bouncing though his empty insides.

 _Peter, Laura, Alpha, Alpha, Alpha, Peter, Laura, Alpha, Alpha, Alpha_.

-

There is nothing to think about, Derek tells himself, and tries to shut his brain off. He can’t afford the hesitation or the extra sting of thinking. His mind continues whirring, though, guilt and insecurity and doubt and _hurt_. He keeps thinking that he can’t kill his only family. He keeps thinking that he has to avenge his sister, he has to avenge _everyone_. He keeps thinking that he can’t be the Alpha. He keeps thinking that he can’t risk Scott becoming the Alpha, can’t let Scott touch Peter, can’t let Scott who has repeatedly refused to be part of his pack destroy the only pack he has left.   

His claws manage to rip through the frantic thoughts and sink into Peter’s skin, slide through his uncle’s throat and let his life and madness and pain and _power_ flow into the earth. Blood dampens the soil but it is not the ground the glows red.

-

Derek is the Alpha now.

He takes everything in; the feel and smell and charge of the air, the earth, Peter’s charred body, the haggard breathing and frightened stares of the human hunters, the confused anger rolling from Scott, the terror that always saturates Jackson to the bone, and _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_.

Derek is the Alpha now and he can finally shut his brain off, can finally stop thinking for once. ( _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_.)

Because Derek is the Alpha now and Alpha’s don’t _think._

Alpha’s _do_.


End file.
